


Log Date 48.61.31:7o

by Lurixiem



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Dehumanization, Eventual Comfort, Fantasy setting, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insanity, Laboratories, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), but by god is it going to be unsatisfactory, overzealous use of hyphens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurixiem/pseuds/Lurixiem
Summary: Maybe this was a little creepy, but the cleric wasn't at the market at the peak selling time so he doesn't really care. Four hours. He waitedfour fucking hours. He's getting his potions.Technoblade walks into a house covered in dust, and he's going tobreaksomething. But a series of footprints catch his eye. In and out and in and out.Interesting.or, local green man commits so many atrocities.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	1. Status - Extremely Hostile

**Author's Note:**

> Cw: Body horror, dehumanization
> 
> Big thanks to lovvy for the idea! Go read his works, he's an amazing writer!

Technoblade had heard about the cleric of this town and his strange demeanor; the underground went mad as soon as they got a batch of his potions circulating. He’s supposedly never been seen, managing to evade even the most keen adventurers. He’s not one to judge, apparently the man’s potions work wonders of the impossible status and if he could accomplish that, he’d want to hide from the vultures too. But, unlucky for him, Technoblade is no average adventurer, and Eret is no average info broker. 

If the cleric can get him a regen potion strong enough to fight his next wither, who cares if the man’s overly nervous about his sheep brains in jars or preserved cow eyes. He doesn’t care, he’s seen worse--hell, he’s _ done _ worse, and the cleric can get over himself. So, he walked around town and intimidated people until he got directions to the market stall, where he waited for long enough for him to lose his tested patience. And when the man failed to show after waiting through his secret, second reserve of patience, Technoblade irritably got directions to his house. Let it be known Technoblade was good at waiting, but four hours was where he drew the  _ line. _

He has half the mind to wonder if he’s being weird, working his way over the overgrown lawn and staring down the worn down wood door, before deciding he doesn’t care. Shouldn’t have made him wait, fucker. Who the hell isn’t at their market stall in the prime selling time, when people are filling the streets and crowding the vendors? He knocks heavily, once, twice- oh. The door swings open on squealing hinges, and apparently this cleric guy’s an idiot because his door wasn’t even closed completely. 

“Hello?” He drawls, lengthening the ‘o’ until it echos back at him. No reply. He has a choice here; he can walk  _ all _ the way to the next village for a worse cleric and all that shiny coin he paid Eret for this guy’s location goes down the drain, or he can walk in and, in the worst case scenario, get kicked out and have to travel to the next village anyway. Best case scenario, the cleric can enchant compasses to find people and he can stop adventuring. He doesn’t bother hoping, it’s been too fucking long and the cleric would have to be some sort of wizard to be able to pick up on that trail. The potions would be pretty neat, though. 

Technoblade makes the worst mistake of his life, and steps into the house. 

The smell of dust hits him instantly. The place looks abandoned with chipped chairs and faded carpet, the whole nine yards. He’d almost consider heading back to town to get some  _ real _ info out of someone if it weren’t for the dozens of shoeprints of varying dustiness printed across the floor. Someone has been here very, very often since the place was abandoned, but no effort has been made to clean anything up. The footprints are large, obviously belonging to someone tall, and the dulled tread printed in the dust indicates that the shoes are old--worn enough that he can’t tell if they were used for running or appearance--and they’d work well for silence if the wearer was trained well enough to use them. 

He follows them over to a large bookshelf, where they abruptly end without a print in the dust to indicate turning away. There’s an odd scuff in the dust beside them, like something had been pulled and pushed enough to move the dust away. Technoblade grips the bookshelf with little hesitation and pulls it out of his way, revealing a button in the wall, previously blocked from view by the bookshelf. It was terribly hidden, if only he could’ve easily covered his tracks by like, cleaning or something. Maybe then he could keep out those dastardly snoopers. In conclusion, it’s totally the cleric’s fault that he’s snooping. Dust was like the one thing that couldn’t be put back and leaves the most obvious traces, the cleric should have  _ cleaned _ . It wasn’t hard, just get a duster or a rag or something. The button stands starkly against the wall, well worn compared to the rest of the house. And by how dustless this patch of floor is, the button would open up the ground to either a drop or a ladder. What an idiot. It’s so obvious.

Looks like the basement was more of his house than the relatively nice looking house above it. What kind of guy goes through all the effort of hiding a button behind a bookshelf and installing an opening in his floor to hide his dungeon but forgets to dust? Not to mention the guy’s not even home! The freshest trail of footprints are leading out, and he paid so much money for this information. 

He looks at the button, then at the door. Actually…freshest set of footprints are leading out, no one’s around… yeah, fuck it. Whoever this idiot is, he’s got Techno’s interest. He’s getting his coin’s worth. And who’s going to stop him? The government? He’ll just take them down, easy. He presses the button and the floor swallows him whole, just as he predicted.

Is he smug for predicting what a very obvious contraption does? Yes, yes he is.

He doesn’t fall for long before he catches himself on vines that bend under his weight, allowing him to gently lower himself to the ground. What a god. It’s only then does he realize the air has changed. It’s a lot mustier due to the fact that they were, you know, underground, but it was also accompanied by the scent of disinfectant and, more worryingly, burning metal. He lands on the floor with little noise--he’s the best adventurer the guild’s got, it’d be offensive if he  _ didn’t _ know how to be quiet on blackstone--and goes straight for the desk. The papers are in an organized scatter, a neat scrawl printed across them. The lantern sits cheerily lit, warming the room far more than it should be, especially in an underground room without any other sort of active lighting. Something was wrong, he could almost feel it in the way that the air itself weighed heavily on his skin. It was like walking through an abandoned village in it’s own twisted way, except instead of a lively place long dead, it was the faint glare of iron bars and obsidian just barely visible across from the desk and the barely-audible distant shuffling of something too heavy to be silverfish. An empty place full of life where there shouldn’t be. 

There was only one type of print in the dust upstairs.

_ Log Date 50.68.31:6c— _

There’s a quiet rasp behind him, and his sword’s pointed at a figure slumped against the quartz wall behind it before his brain catches up to his body. Why didn’t he see them when he came in, what the fuck. 

“Are you the cleric?” He asks steadily, keeping his sword up and watching the figure shift slowly like they were waking up from a nap--not like a nap, there’s not enough sluggishness for that, but like they’ve curled up in that position for hours. They’re in basic black garb, limbs hunched and curled in on themself like they’re trying to avoid something, make themselves smaller. Silence stretches between Technoblade and the thing in the corner, only broken by jarringly audible, rattling breaths that he had to have missed when he entered. The alternative is that they just didn’t fucking breathe. He takes a step closer with his sword still in his hand. 

The figure straightens, and the fabric draped on their body catches in places it shouldn’t, on things it shouldn’t, like across its sides or chest or calves and where it should drape and fall normally, it sticks like it’s damp in certain places. He watches as it unfurls itself and its limbs and  _ nothing moves correctly _ ; it’s arms bend twice in a way that’s too long and too thin and misshapened, accounting for bones that shouldn’t exist. He can’t stop staring at the disaster, like a burning pyre or a crumbling cliff, and he finally gets a glimpse of its face. 

Technoblade is no stranger to fear; he’s as fluent as can be in shaking off any twists of terror that tie his stomach and sink it to sea level. 

This isn’t fear. Fear ties and tugs and drowns. This creeps _._ This creeps and slithers and traces his insides with dripping black hands; it rips and tears in a hysteria until he can feel nothing but pouring dread along whatever cavity it slips into. This sinks in and around his heart like a cage where all it can do is beat in a screaming staccato that harmonizes with the dull roar of static going through his brain.

His sword shakes in his hand as he backs away from glowing, golden eyes set in flesh melted like wax and a skull partially dented and flowing in globs of black and red down a face with a dripping mouth that was pulled too long and bits of skin curling, peeling to the same shine of gold or coal black void where there’s no fat to liquify—

  
  


“T̴̡̊͒̃͂ͬͩͨ̎͢e̴̡̛̋̽̓̈́̉̌̄̿̊̏͋͆͊͒ͧͩͦ͟c̴̶̡̡̀̀̐͗h̷̔̓̾͒͟.̷̛̇ͯͩ͛̄̂ͣ̃̉̚̚̚͏.̶̴ͫͤ̂ͪ͂ͬ͢͞.ͦ̓̈̍̆ͮͯ̿̂͏̸n̵̸̈́͂ͦ͆͂͐͂́̈ͪ͑͡͡ò̴̎͆ͣ͂̽̓́͗̈ͣͯ̈́̓̑͒̕.̷ͪ̃͒̌̆̄ͭ̕.̨ͥ̂̈́̋̊̍͋̉͂͢.̛̛͋ͨ͐͋̾̑̂̂̄͋ͥ̍͐͜b̨̊ͦ͑ͨ̍̇̍̆̍ͯ́̉ͬ̔̃͂͟l̵̵̴ͦͭ̿̈̏͑̾ͤ́͒ͧ͗ͦ̑̒̓ͧ͒͝a̡͐̌ͫͦͨ̇͋ͪ̋̚͠d̷̵̈́͂ͪͥ̅̅̈́͑ͥ̆ͥ̆̿͗ͭͪ̇̏̕͝e̊ͭͧ͛ͧ͒̏̈́̎̏́̓̆ͫ̾͐ͥ̚͢?̷̛̾͛̓̆͘͜” He bumps into something. He can feel thick stitches through its shirt, and he turns around to face something’s sternum. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to be near it, but backing away would bring him closer to the other thing, not human never human not even creature because there’s no way it should be alive should be breathing should be moving, and he can’t think straight, can’t comprehend what he saw because it couldn’t have been alive but it looked at him it saw him it should be _dead—_ he looks up. Stitches. So many stitches. It looks like someone peeled the skin off an enderman and a ghast and melded them together, layers blending and stopping in a clean divide down the middle.

Claws are around his shoulder. They’re sharp and far, far too long to be human. There are stitches there, too. It opens its mouth, and it keeps opening until the stitches laid across its cheek begin to pool and drip something thick and red that couldn’t be blood--he doesn’t want it to be blood wants nothing to connect this to being a person--and the stitches snap and split and it lets out a shriek.

“R̡͟҉̷̫̣͓̤͖̤̺̹͕̪̦͎̩͔̲̳̺̟U҉̸̡͓̦̪̝̱̜̭͖̥͚̜̤͉͘͜ͅͅN̶̨̠͖͔͖̥͓̳̺̙̦̹̥͓͠͝.̵̡̥̟̤̝͉͓̭̬͈͓̦̣̜͔͍̙̤͔ͅ” it starts wailing, the same sound over and over and over again and the sound cuts deep into his mind like someone opened the back of his head and started scraping at it with a spoon.

“R̘͡҉̵̶̞̟̬̪̣͢͝͡Ư̷͍̦̹̙͢͜͠ͅN̵̢̡̩̼͎͙̤̼͢͟.͇҉̸̡̢̣͙͖͜͞ͅ ̵̢͚͏̫̖̼̯̣͞R̴̨̺͏̡̧͎͚̬̩̮͞͞U̶̢̧̨̡̪̳̰̗͉̥̘̕͟͞͝͝ͅN̰̬͜͡͏̶̛͕͖͢҉̟̰̙͏̲̻̕.̵̸̢̛͎̮̹̮҉̴̶̷̣̱̙̞̕͢͡͡҉̵̮͎͇̦̙͝ ҉͏̵̴̨̧͚̟̣͉̖͔̹̫͜͢͜͞R̵̡̢̫̹̗̩̕͜͝҉̴͈̯̩͏͔̮͞U̴̵̶̠̖̝̥̯̣͖̞̟͘͜͟͞͡͡͝҉̬̹͙Ņ̧̢̛͉͎̮҉̷̞̜͔͢͜͝͠҉̡͍͚͖͝҉̠̤̜͞.̛҉̶̶̧̢̨͕͇̘̳͍̮͎̱̦̗͓͓͘̕͟͟͞͡͡ ҉̠͉͖͢͏̶̴̸̸̛̤̯͙͖̞͍͕̬̬͢͜͠R̡͙̘͖̕̕̕͠͡͏̼̦̙͘͏̪͖̰̳̗͓͉͜͞U̵̵̧̡̢̢͍͔̬̱̗̦̤̮̯̼̯̕͘͜͞͠҉̱̹̪N̶̡̢̡̛̛̛̹̜̰̘̙͙̠̱̣͘͘̕͘͢͢͞͏̨͕̬̳͉.̶̛̭̪̮̠͟͢͞҉̶̢̨̛̫̼͚̱͝͏̸̴̛͍̭̭̩̖̪͉͓͟͝ ̴̷̷̸̡̨̡̡̜̟̬̹̪̪̘̙͙̯̬̖̖̙͖̕͘͟͟͡͝ͅ **H̡͏̨̠̫̳͔͞͠͏̵̨̧̢̧͙̘͚̤̮̝͈͈̺̟͇̕͜͜͜͞͠ͅE̵̴̴̵̡̻̫͓̻̗̲͓͎͘͢͢͞҉̴̶̵̴̨̧̡̧̛̛͕͉̣̺͇͍̯̠̗̭̦̠̳̪̬̰̬̕͟͞͞͞͝͡͡’̸̴̷̺͎͕̻҉͢͜҉̷̵̡̡̨̛̙͓͉̙̯̜̫̬͞҉͏̴̶͓̣̭̬̘͕̞͎͞͠S̷̵̷̸̨̧̛͎̼͓̳̟̲͚̤͘͢͝͝͞҉̸̡̢̙͖̞̥̰̕̕҉̴͈̲͔̘̘͡ ҉̖̩̬̯̟͢͟͠͠͠͠͡͝҉̨̧̲͖̮̲̳͡͞͏̸̨̛̯͇̠͖̲͟͜͡͞҉̲̱̟͇̲C͏̷͏͘҉̪̠͍̫̦͡͏̡̥̠͓̺͕͟͠͞҉̸̢̡̡̛̣̺̺̝̻͓̲͖̦͘͝͝͠ͅO̧͢͡҉̴̴̳̹̪͕̜̕҉̸̨̤̼̜̮̪̕͠҉̸̵̡̨͓͙̭̰͍͡͠͏̟̪̞̹̱͟M͏͏̴̨̛̲̪͎̗͉̕͟͢҉̶̷̨̢̛̛̱͉͈̭̥͔̰̩͉͖͠͏̴̶̨̬̯̻̱͉I̸̶̢͍̝͕̬̦͝͞͞͏̸̶̷̵̨̧̣̦͓̟̝͕̥͍̲̺͕̼̲͚̕͜͟͢͢͝͠͞͝ͅŅ̵̴̸̸̢̢̧͖̫͖͎̺͈̱̻̙͉̻̜̩̹͎̪̬͘̕̕͜͜͢͢͡͠͝͏̢̯͙͓̘̝̫͘G̸̴̷̸̵̷̢̜̠͇̩͍̝̥̱̦̞͈̻̙͚̙̲̣̺̜̱͉̗̣̥͘͢͟͟͟͜͟͢͞͝͝͞** ,̶̴̧̡̧̛̛͇̻̩̻̖͘͢͠ͅ͏̶̴̶̸̶̶̡̨̨̛̬̱̦̘̘̫̲̝͈͈̻͓͓͙̮̤̟̤͘̕͜͠Ŗ̶҉̸̵̷̶̙̬̪̟͈ͅ҉̷̴̴̶̵̶̡̢̛̛̜̘͍͎̟͓̫̜̦̻͈͔̟̭̘͘̕͟͞ͅͅͅƯ̵̵̷̶̸̢̡̢̡̨̧̢̨̡̡̥̠̩̯̥̹͔̟̳͔̜̳͍̗̼̱̥̹͟͜͢͟͡͝͡҉̧҉͚̩̱̯̞ͅN̷̴̢̛̛̹̬̫͓̮̙̕͢͡͡҉̶̷̸̢̼̞̩̞̘͕͞͠͡҉̢̢̮̜̫͖̼͚̪͚̤̘̟̪͘̕͠͝͝͝͡ ̵̢͘͟҉̶̛̹͍͕̳̱̕̕͠ͅ҉̸̴̨̛͔̖̝̻̦̞̯̟̼̫̗̤̭͘̕͟͠͝͞͝͏̸̠̩̠̟̣͜ͅ R̸̵̴̻͈͈̥̕͟͜͠U̴̴̢̧̨̖͉̝͕͟N̶̨̢̤̜͖͢͏͙̠͞,̸̡̛̛̘̝̳͇̥̰͈̙̕͘͜͜͞ ̡̻̙̺̦͟͢͜͝͏̢̣̤҉͔͔͘G̛͏̴̸̧̭͕̮̤̗͈͏̡̢͈͍҉̶̸̡̼̤̬̙̦̪̼̜͢͟͏̢̱̘̥͖͏̰̪ͅǪ̵̴̢̢̛̪̱̹̩̝̻͍͎̭͎̕͢͢͡͝͏̧̤͙̥͢ ̧̢̛̭̙̠̫̼̗͢͡͡G̴̡̯̺͈͜O҉̶̗̦͖ ̛̻̫͔͢G͠͏͍̞̣͘͞ͅ҉̡̝̤̹̫̕͟͝Ǫ̸̳̠͖̦͟͜ ̛͏̴̙͙̜͙G̸̴̵̘̜̭̮͜Ȩ̛̰͍͇̞͟͞T̛̰̳͚̟̕҉̢̪̩̜͔̕͘͞҉̧̡͈̥͔̫͡͝ ͏̸̷̷͇͔̗̱A̸͉̭͍̖͘͢͞W̕҉̡̧̥̤̭̘Ą̷͡҉̣̳̬̗҉̛̬̱͉͓̤͘͠͠͡Y̸̴̢̟̲͓͖̘͢͟ ̵̧҉̛̫̗̭̬̣҉̛̛҉̟̭̹̬ͅF̨̡̢̡̺͙̞̭͈͠R̷̴̫̟̘̜͝͡͠ͅO̸͇̪̬̝̮͘͟͜͞M͏̨͏̘̻̖̼̥͝ ̷̵̢̨͙̬̯̮̲͠H̶̶̤̝͖̜͓͢͟͡Ę̵̼͉̲̤͉͘͜͝R̶͙̦̣̤̝͢͠Ḛ̢̨̲͙̰͙͢͡҉̷̶̫͓̙̲͉͚͢͜͞͠ ̶̸̨̢̡͍̼͚̣̬̠͜R̵̢̰̣̹̺̹̺͘͢Ų͏̧̮͓̤̙̫̙͠N̡͘҉̨̡̠̱̱̭̟̝ ̴̵̢̜̖̻͍̝͖̕͡Ļ̛͎̯̤̥̣̦͘͡Ę̷͡҉̵͉̩͕͔̻͞ͅA̸̶͠͠͏̷̟̼̞̭̼͓V͟͡͠͏̻̖̥͇̹͔̕Ę̴̴̯͇̠̻̺͓͘͞͝ ̢҉̶̞̮̪̯̤̟͘͟͢G͏̢̧̛̞̦̣̦̞̭͠Ơ̸̵̧͜͏̞͓̙̭͕̠ͅ ̛̕͞҉̰̱̦͖̠̤͙͘R̶̨̛͟͢҉͇̰̟̰̭̮ͅU̸̸͢͞͡͏̝̺̝͙̖̯͎N̵̶̸̮̪̮̼̗̘͙͘͘̕͡҉̷̵̸̡̛͎̰̞̱͚͇͜͡ͅ  **̛͏͟͏͏̺͎͍͓̭̩̮R͏̷̢̢͕̠̲̘͎̜͘͜ͅƯ̴̢̱̻̳̭̞̥̕͘͠ͅN̷̡̨̥͇̪̳̝͇̻͘͘͘͢** !̢̨̡͙̣̯̘̗͇̯̕͜͢͝”̵̨̥̖̜͘͜͟͡”

He runs. Everything’s chanting in a chorus of screams and he runs he runs he runs. Technoblade has always been the hunter, always chasing and grinning with his sword at his side, but now he’s gasping as he ducks and weaves and his eyes flicker across long walls because he could have sworn that the exit was right there- 

He runs straight into a man with a smile for a face. 

“Now, where do you think you’re going?”

The bars of his cell screech under his clenched hands as he snarls something awful at that damned smiling mask. 

“Hello, Technoblade,” Dream says pleasantly, and damn him, damn him-

He wants to sink his claws into the flesh of his stomach and  _ rip _ it apart piece by piece, wants to shove his fingers through the holes of that mask just to see where they go and not stop until Dream stops screaming, wants to-

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He says, eyeing Techno’s white-knuckled grip, and he can hear the smile in his voice and the bars bend further under his hands. He did this he did this he hates him he hates him he—

“V̖͎̟͉̩w̧̡̳ợ͎̜̩̼o҉̺̖̬̣p҉͖͚͍͝!“ Ranboo cheerfully appears at the green bastard’s side, smiling even if he looks like he’s gathering himself. Technoblade loosens his grip on the bars, still growling, but the sound of it no longer joined by the screech of metal. Ranboo seemed unharmed at the side of a monster, but he checked him over anyway; He knew teleporting hurt the abomination.

“Are you going to cooperate now?” His eyes snap back to the green bastard. He hates him, he hates him  _ so _ much. He knows he can’t respond. He can’t even tell him to go fuck himself, what a fucking tragedy. He tries anyway, his words coming out distorted and leaving his vocal chords aching. 

“Good,” Dream replies with a sickly sweet tone, understanding not because he cares to, but because he knows Techno can’t do a single thing against him. Not when he has Ranboo under his thumb. Not with Sapnap always at his back like a shadow. He catches its eye over Dream’s shoulder, or at least he tries to, the gold voids absent of anything. He could take Dream down, any of them could without question. If it was all of them against Sapnap, he gets a feeling they’d all get burnt alive. 

“Come on now.” Dream breaks their little staring contest by stepping between them, unlatching the door. “Tests to do, results to record.” His voice is sickeningly cheery, just like it always is before something painful, and Technoblade can’t help but tense under the light tone.

He takes one last look at the two figures at Dream’s back, then ducks through the cell door. His joints ache in time with the click of his hooves on the blackstone floor. A careful claw wraps right underneath the puff of his tail and there’s a moment of panic before he remembers, and he almost snorts at his brother’s antics. 

He calls what they are abominations, because it’s true; they aren’t natural, aren’t even human in their own minds half of the time, and, well, they’re fucking monsters. But he’s constantly reminded that they all used to be human, in little painful ways. He’s not sure if they are anymore, between nights screaming as his skin when it was still skin stretched and split apart, and the constant dehumanization, he certainly wouldn’t consider himself human anymore. But Ranboo and Tommy still had some kindness in them, even with Dream’s fucked up tests. Phil and Wilbur too, though their humanity was more weary and hopeless. Everyone here is barely living, but they’re so painfully human sometimes, and it’s just enough to keep living. There are still jokes shared between them, quiet laughs snuck between the short periods Dream is gone, and maybe he is still a person. He stares at the back of Dream’s head as he thinks. They’re good...people. They are. And they’re at the whims of the real abomination. 

Someone said violence for the sake of violence is the rule of beasts, and, well, when a person sees you fit to turn into a beast, Techno’s just itching to meet his expectations.

The time will come soon, he just has to wait for him to slip up. And the moment he does, Techno will be on him with an axe and every bit of bloodlust that he’s been holding back on.

But for now, he walks between three abominations, two physical and one literal, to the next test.


	2. Status - Passive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: Self harm, body horror  
> Be careful when reading this! Some things might hit a little close to home and please take care of yourselves.

He hears the quiet tap of footsteps make their way down the hall. Even all the way across the corridor he’s able to feel Techno’s eyes on him, on his borrowed ears as they jerkily perk up at the noise. He looks back to make an attempt at eye contact, but he’s too far and it’s too dark--lights on is after the first test to mimic the daylight cycle _apparently,_ but none of them sleep, least of all the green bastard and at this point all it does is throw off any sleep schedule they can scrounge up--and he can only make out a silhouette. 

Techno’s hunched, the roof of his cell brushing the spines of his back, because why should Dream care if his holding cells were too small or if he’s killing any chance of them getting any kind of rest with his stupid erratic light times. Why should Dream care about any of them, really, he’s so much better than them in every way. He had the right to pluck them from the outside world and cut them up and stitch them together and leave him drowning in silence and solitude, so why should he care. He hears a quiet scratch of a pencil on paper as his target and his shadow turns the corner, and his blood boils. He can feel the anticipation sear through his veins, followed by a frantic des-

Followed by a solid determination. No desperation, helplessness, or anything of the sort here. He’s not falling apart; he’s here and he’s strong and he’s going to fucking win.

Techno’s gaze burns, and for once, he doesn’t care. His tail is still and he quiets his breathing from his hiding spot. Anticipation gnaws at his heels and he tenses, readying himself on the cold blackstone floor.

Dream is going to walk by him with his shitty too-quiet shoes just like he does every day, but today? He grits his teeth to hold back a snarl, face aching with the force. Today isn’t just like every day, he won’t let it be. Today, he’s going to end it all.

Today, he’s out for blood.

The footsteps get closer, louder, and his claws scrape eagerly, quietly, against the floor. He’s so ready for this. He’s never been more ready for anything in his life.

Wilbur flashes through his mind, then, smiling with glassy eyes and pleasantries and endless air filled conversation topics and apologies, and he misses his fucking brother so much that it stitched itself into the cartilage of his heart and stuck. Every fucking time he comes back from that room he’s less and less there and he’s leaving him more and more alone, and he already knows he’d raise hell for him so he can’t just sit here. Technoblade and Phil can’t do shit, they’re under constant watch, but he’s fuckin free, bitch. Underestimated in a way that makes his skin crawl and his limbs tense because he’s the only chance they’ve got. Maybe they’ll see him now instead of just looking at him.

His shitty, colorblind, stolen eyes pick out the smile, that stupid fucking smile that looks like it was drawn by a child, and Dream doesn’t even give him a fucking glance. Cocky bastard; he knows his breathing isn’t that quiet, but apparently he doesn’t pose any sort of _threat._ It pisses him off. Look at this abomination, he can’t do any damage. ‘Status - passive.’ It makes him so fucking _angry,_ enough that he wants to rip something to shreds and claw gouges into the walls to let people know he was here and exactly how he felt. Just because he’s not merged with a hostile mob doesn’t mean he should be overlooked. Just because he’s not taken to tests on the daily like everyone else--his last test was like a month and a half back--doesn’t make him worthless.

He continues to stare at Dream, and he almost wants to make eye contact if only to say _look at me._ Fucking look at me and call _this_ passive, bitch. A growl works his way out of his throat against his will and the stupid fucking mask begins to tilt towards him, but it’s not a problem. That becomes his queue.

He lunges to tear his throat out, howling and screaming, and finally, finally he can move with everything that’s going on instead of sitting stagnant and letting things happen around him, and it feels _fantastic._ It feels like he’s flying above the clouds, rising to something incredible, and he’ll finally be seen as himself and not as some dumb fucking child that no one wants to talk to, because he took down the titan, he’s the one who freed everyone, he shot first in the duel, he rid them of their captor, he's fucking _god_ now, you motherfucker--

Everything flashes white and suddenly he can’t breathe. Then slowly, slowly, he feels his hands grow warm. He smells something cooking. Something burning. Then slowly, quickly, all at once, every nerve in his body is on fire.

“Drop him.”

He’s still screaming when he hits the ground. He tastes blood, and the burns cling like guts of crushed spiders despite having been let go. Technoblade moves around him, being led to his test of the day.

Time stretches around him, fusing seconds, minutes, days even, into an incoherent mush of a moment. He doesn’t know how long has passed, how long he’s been whimpering on the floor, but there are cool hands gently moving him to the side. Every brush of air is another bunch of tiny, acid covered needles to his neck and his palms eat his skin until it’s nothing.

“Tommy?” An airy voice asks. “Are you alright, Tommy?”

He hates that voice. He cries, hearing that voice.

“Wilbur?” He croaks, and even talking hurts. Especially talking, hurts. He peels open an eye which only gives him a headache as the lights sink spindles into his vision and digs. He can’t even see anything through the pained blur of tears.

“I’m not him. I’m Ghostbur.”

He knows that. He knows that and it hurts.

Everything hurts.

Tommy wakes up alone after flying too close to the sun, and the world moves around him.

“Why would you try to attack him?!” His ears flatten against his head with how loud Phil trills. The shout echoes across the cold walls of the recovery room and the taste of glistening melon sticks so strongly to the back of his throat that he wants to gag. It was a shitty fucking potion, too. His palms were still stinging with every movement and his neck resembled an on fire candle more than actual flesh, and needless to say, he really didn’t want to do this right now.

“I was trying to be helpful, old man!” He shouts, vocal chords aching from behind bandages and semi-melted flesh.

“While he was armored and protected, no less—“ Phil continues, and fuck him. Tommy can see his feathers ruffle painfully and what’s he going to do, the room’s definitely not large enough to fit his entire wingspan, and that’s assuming Phil’s having a good day with all his limbs.

“It’s not like I knew the glowey bitch was gonna be around—“ he snaps himself, and the space is filled with noise.

“That was so fucking stupid, did you even think about anything—“

“Do I look like the kind of man who thinks, if I succeeded everything would’ve--”

“I thought you had more self preservation than--”

“Been free, fuck you, you don’t know shit, I could’ve torn out his throat easy--”

“That, you have to take some care of yourself, don’t--”

“And you’re gonna be next if you keep up this lecture you motherfucker—“

“You know what it would do to us if you got hurt—“ That line was probably the only thing he heard, and the yawning hole in his chest crumbles at the edges to grow.

“No! Because you never fucking show it!” He screams. His voice breaks halfway through the sentence and heat scorches his cheeks in fury (in hurt). Tears prick at the corner of his eyes and he hates it because it’s childish and he’s not a fucking child. “It’s always us, us, oh look at us with our scars and not good ole childish Tommy, it’s not like he had dog ears sewn onto his head or had his eyes gouged out and replaced!”

Phil is silent, and Tommy’s voice can’t take much more.

“It’s always you and Technoblade and Technoblade and Ranboo and where do I fit in?” His voice pitches up against his will, a wine winding its way through his words. He’s always by himself and he just wants someone to look at him.

“You have Ghostbur.”

“Wilbur,” he snaps, the memory--not a memory, he’s still here, he has to still be here--of warm, fiery brown eyes only digging him further. “He’s _Wilbur._ ”

“Wilbur, then.” Phil’s voice sounds like it can’t take too much more either. He’d feel bad if he didn’t just feel bitter.

“Yeah. Leave the 14 year old child with the broken shell of his brother and only that,” he spits.

“We were trying to keep you out of it because you’re too young for this stuff!” Phil insists, and Tommy explodes.

“Too young?! Too _young_ ?! Phil, I’m already fucking here! Get off your high horse, I already got subjected to.” he motions to his ears, which jerk and twist with tiny stabs of pain, “this! How much worse can knowing your shit be? I’m already traumatized!” Phil doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know how to make him understand.

“You sh...” Phil’s voice gives out, and he switches to signing. _You, young, no, have to, hear._

“I want to listen! Do you think I like watching you chucklefucks get dragged away by the jolly green giant to get fucked up?! I don’t need to know what happened, just let me comfort you or hang out or something! I’m just asking for-for some basic affection, man, I don’t think I’m asking for too much!” Please. Please, notice he’s drowning.

Phil gives him that look, and he hates that look; it says ‘you’re 14 and you don’t deserve to be here.’ Yeah, he fucking knows that. Phil needs to get over himself. No amount of that shitty pitiful look will change reality. Step up, you old fucking man.

He sees the moment Phil processes what he said. His wings bow from where they’re usually held stiffly against his back and Tommy can see how he trembles from the pain of moving them. _Okay, we, try,_ he signs.

“Thank you Philza,” he mumbles.

_No, attack, bitch, please._ Tommy cackles internally at his own translation and lets the grin take over his face, the action feeling strange in how it pulled at his mouth. The mood was too heavy for his tastes right now, so this was good, he thinks.

“I dunno, even if he really pisses me off?”

_NO._

“Fine, fine,” he says once he finishes laughing, and he rolls his eyes. “I’ll save it to maul Ranboo—“

“Tommy!” Phil squawks, only to be met with laughter. His eyes soften, and Tommy gets a pat on the head that he leans into, tail wagging.

Maybe the burns were worth it.

“You knew he was guarded,” was the first thing Techno said to him when he was teleported in.

“I don’t know what you‘re talking about.” Because he didn’t. Does he look like someone who knows things? The obsidian presses uncomfortably against his feet, sending shocks of cold up through his nerves. Techno’s the only source of warmth here, and while he’s nowhere near Sapnap’s level of warm, he does run warmer than the rest of them. He’d approach, but he’s a little worried about Techno seeing it as a threat. “Thanks, Ranboo.”

There’s a tiny ‘ _vwoop!_ ’ in reply and then he’s alone in a room with the blade. He gets comfortable, as comfortable as he can in this depressing as shit room. Phil’s in testing and loneliness started gnawing at him again, so he’ll be here for a bit. They should get better chairs. Or any chairs. Like gamer chairs, for example. He saw them before he got thrown in here, and they always looked like the peak of comfort.

“When you attacked Dream. You knew he was protected.” His attention snaps back to the hulking figure in the corner, purposely shifting his gaze away from gnarled pink skin and thin pieces of leathery flesh dotted with trenches of stretch marks to meet his eyes. Techno’s eyes were always creepy as shit; pure white with only a single pinprick of black to point where he looked. Tommy shifts under the stare, hand self consciously brushing the dripping scars across his neck.

“I didn’t,” he tries, feeling oddly like a butterfly under a magnifying glass. A pin through a delicate wing, caught and cornered and scrutinized under a pinprick of light. Something like anxiety starts in his stomach, like a drop of off-center acid, swirling, eating its way through a mixture. Techno leaves no time after his reply, cutting off his next words.

“You did. He’s always protected. You did this on purpose. Why?”

“What do you mean why.” The low burning in his stomach gets worse, and he knows yelling’s a bad idea but if he made good life choices he wouldn’t be down here. His ears burn too, his human ears, and it curls around his mind like a toxin. All he remembers when he made the decision to jump Dream was strings, maybe pins, wrapping around and around him, and the more he struggled the more it cut off his breathing. It tightened and built until he was so fucking desprate for a breath of air that it burned already, but the strings kept dragging him down and down and he drowned and his hands hurt his neck hurt but with Phil and Techno looking at him it was so much easier but they wouldn’t look they never looked and they turned away and they left him to suffocate, how fucking dare they.

“You burned yourself to get our attention.” He breathes in a shaking breath at Techno’s voice, and it burns with anger and the desperation they had sown into his skin.

“If I’m hurting myself for attention, maybe someone should’ve given me attention, huh?! Hey, hey dickhead and guess what? It fucking worked,” he shouts with all the fire in his lungs, never able to keep his voice down. The acid inside of him burns, completely and unhindered. He always kept his mind on his tongue, after all.

Techno keeps looking at him, and his bravado stutters.

“I didn’t sign up to take care of a child.”

“And I didn’t sign up to be put with a bunch of assholes, but here I am.”

For once, Techno breaks eye contact first. He motions him over with rounded twists of long limbs, and Tommy scoots next to the abomination.

“I’m sorry for failing you,” he says gruffly with his monotone drawl. He sounds earnest though, possibly the most genuine Tommy had ever heard him. “Know how to play cards?”

“Why would I-? In what world-Techno, in what world would I need to know how to play cards.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’ll teach you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to lovvy for the fic idea! Go read his works, he's an amazing writer!  
> And thank you to all the people I bullied into reading this, you all are fantastic <3


	3. Status - Friendly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: Insanity, implied self harm, body horror 
> 
> This one's a fun one! Be careful ^_^

_I heard there was a special place_.

His fingers bled from cuts from strings from a guitar he used to play

_Where men could go and emancipate._

Grey skin peeling skin and scars down his cheeks from tears

_The brutality and the tyranny of their ruler._

Let us go, a chant it chants what chants from the dark and the dreary drifts that spiral and swirl and let us go let us go let us go let us go faces colors shapes screaming whispers a button and nothing to press the quiet hiss and it all goes up in flames

“Hi, I’m Ghostbur.”

* * *

Wilbur had once looked up if it were possible to die of boredom. He thought the monotony of daily life was going to be the death of him. It was a hot summer day, the kind that clung to his clothes like leeches and weighed him down, and _fuck_ he hated summers. The list was written in clear, crisp handwriting which usually meant the writer was full of themself enough to sit down and rewrite their findings in a clear hand. Or rich. Neither of those were interesting. He ran a finger over ink far too old to smear and turned the list over in his head for a lack of anything better to do on this hell of a Wednesday. _Symptoms of extreme, constant understimulation includes: repetitive motions, oversleeping, undersleeping, twitching, sensitivity to sensations, screaming, hallucinations, delusions, self-harm, insanity_. 

Yeah, that sounds about right. He tossed the book on the table, pulled his boots off the table and ignored the look of the librarian. He grabs his bag, a smirk sliding on his face as he saunters out. The world was waiting under his feet for him to explore, and this little, shitty library in this little, shitty town couldn't keep him if it tried. He had songs to write, people to woo. 

A silent, pitch black cell to sit in. To pace. To rot.

Wilbur Soot, bard, had everything he could want in life. A rocking reputation, a bag full of coin, and a little twerp he found on the side of the road that he got too attached to to leave behind. 

Wilbur Soot, bard, was dead. 

Instead, there was Ghostbur. 

Ghostbur was dead, too. And it felt like every other moment in his life. 

He was here, and then he wasn’t. It’s not that hard to follow. He was alive and breathing and his heart was beating, and then he wasn’t, and it didn’t. 

It wasn’t that hard to follow. He follows it and it’s knotted and strung like entrails the animal in blue along the ceiling. 

Ghostbur wakes up. 

There’s a melody playing softly on his guitar using his fingers in the background. He feels like the moment he died. 

The guitar sounds like pencils writing. He doesn’t think the guitar likes pencil writing. His fingers stop and he goes to grab them. Oh. Those aren’t his. 

Someone knocks on a door. The handle cuts cold spikes into his hands. He opens it. 

Ghostbur wakes up. 

There’s no more guitar. The door is being opened and grooves walk in and slide under his fingers. 

Still no guitar noise, but there is a distant scratch of pencil. It’s in his throat, scratching away. It’s a nice sound. Soothing. He feels the grooves with his fingers and they deepen under his strings. 

His hands are bleeding cold. He’s cold. Maybe if he rubs his arms he can carry some warmth into them. His hands sink into his arms with a crack and keep sinking and his arms aren’t there. There are fingers and eyes, he can feel them burn and dance as they flit from guitar note to guitar note, but he feels like the moment he died. 

His hands scratch a note. They’re warming up to him. That’s good. He doesn’t like it when they don’t because they wail and it floods the room and he likes his feet on the ground. 

The scratch is a whir in the back of his head, whirring like a grindstone. He runs his fingernails along them. They bend and snap and blue drips down his face into the grooves beneath him. Oh well, it’s not like they were his. 

Ghostbur wakes up. 

The dark spins around him and he upset them, didn’t he? They wail like nailed on chalkboards. His nails are there, and his hands still pluck blue from where they're missing. 

He thinks his eyes might be gone, too, actually. There’s a lot of green flowing and green likes to flow when he has his eyes closed and his eyes are open so they don’t exist. 

His hands weep. He’s spinning and he doesn’t like them anymore. He wants fingers of his own so he can cut them on the guitar strings. 

Their tears are warm and red. There’s a hand on his cheek. It’s not the usual ones, he knows because this one’s all tied and bleeding. His don’t bleed. 

It brings a ringing with it. A hand is warm but he hates the ringing. He crushes it with an eye, but it comes back in the swirling pink. Pink hates his eye, so he must have had eyes at some point. Not now.

He hears a guitar plucking. He plucks back, plucking his nails and the chalkboard, and the warm hand plucks at his heart and he feels skin stretch across somewhere below his eyes. 

There are a lot of those. They leer and his distaste for them crawls up a spine and rots it. He picks at the grooves on his arms, pulling out nail after nail to throw darts at the skin stretching across his ears. Blue leaks out and he greets it cheerily, opening the door. Blue pools around his feet and ears and he feels like the moment he died. 

He breathes blue and his eye through and he shuts the door. There’s a drip on his finger and it’s red and green and burns like water and he drops it on the blue. The blue gets scared away and he feels the spine twitch as he grabs it. There’s nails sticking out of it. It wiggles its way between his leering teeth. He bites down.

Ghostbur wakes up.

Music floats through the room and sinks into ravines along his cheek. Fingers reach out to give it a tug. These have nails. The bars talk, and he likes when they talk. He knows when they talk. There’s a little plucking and crawling up his arms. Tommy? Bone sinks under his teeth. Hands grab at them, those must be Tommy’s. He sees them reach out of his throat, twisting and grabbing a handful of dust. He shuts his mouth. Tommy’s gone. He feels his skull spiral out. There’s dust, and that must be Tommy’s. It’s dark, where is Tommy? Water fills his neck and Tommy ? It burns through Tommy and Tommy like doesn’t Tom my Tommy Tommy Tommy Tommy Tommy Tomm̡y  
T͞o̶m̶my T̶omm̶y T͘om͠m͝y͏ \ ͝T͜o̧m̷my̧ ̛ ͢Tomm͟y̨ ̨ Tǫm͝m͢y ̧ ̨ ͘ ͏ Tommy To͢mmy ͡T͟om̸m͢y  
̸ ͝ ̸ ͏ ̴ Tommy ͝ ͡ ̧ ͠ ͡ ͟ ̢Tommy T̵o̧mm̷y To̢m͝my̢ T̛o̸m͜͢m̶y͠ To͞m̡҉͘m̵y̨ ͜͢T̕͟o̧mm͘͘y  
̵̡͠ ̡ ̧͝ T̕͡ơ͜m̵̧m̷͟҉y̵̢ ̷͢ ̛ ̢̡͠T̴͠ommy ̵ Ţ͝o̡͠m͞m҉y̡ Ţ̛o͏͘m̷̸͡ m̴̵y͞ T̸̕o͘mm͞y͡ T̶̨̕o̶̢mmy̶͟ ̷T̷̴o̷m̢̧m͏̛y͏̵ T̢͟o̷͢m͞my̸ ͘T̕͝omm͞y͟͏ T̷͝o̶mm͏y͝͝ T̡͟o̧͟m̨̨m̧̡y͢ ̡̛T͝o̴mm̨y T̴͠҉o̡͜m̡̡my̨ Tǫ̷͠m͞m̨̧y͞͠ ͠͏͟ ̶̸ ͘͏ ̴͢͏ ͏T̢o̶m͞my ̶͠T̛͝͠o̶͡m͟m̶̧҉y ̵͜T̛͠o͜mm͏̛y͏ ̴T̨͜o̢m̡͟m̡y͜҉ ̧͜͏ ͏͜҉ ̨͘͡ ̨̨ ̡  
͜҉̵To̴̷͘m̢m̢y̨ Tom͢͝͠m҉̛y̕͞ ̧̛To̴͢m͏̛m̵y̡ T̨̕o҉̴̸mm͘͘y͟ ͝͝͠ ̧̛ ̸ ̴͏̕ ҉T҉҉o̕mm̢y̸͘ T̛omm̷͢͝y̧̛͞ T̛om̷͢m͢y҉͏ ̡͜T̶͢͢om̸͝͏m̸y T͢o͜m҉͜m̶̡y̶͏ ̵T͜o̕͢m҉̷m̧̕҉y ̶ ͏͏ ̕ ̛̕ ̧ ̕͞ ̸̛Tomm͜y̡̨ ̵̢T҉͏o̵͝͠m̸̛my͝ ̶͢͜T̛ǫm̴m̕y͞ ̷̢T͡͏͏̛͟o̴͠͡m̵͘͢m҉̶͏҉ y͡͏ ̡̢̛͢T̸̕o̷̡̧͢͠m̡͠͡҉͞m̶y̛͟ ͘͘͏̨ T̕ơ̧͟͢͝m̢̨͢m̶̨̨͞y̸̢̡ ̢̡̛̛T̡̛͜͟͝ơ̶͡͠͝m͘͟͠m̶̨y̨ ̨͢ ̴͟҉̷ ̷̶͞͏ ̴͘͟͝ ̵͡͡ ͘͢Ţ͟͠o̴͞͏͟m̢̨͠m̡̛͠y̡͟͟͠ ̵̨T̕o̢m̷̢̢m̴̛̕͞y̶̧͢͞ ̸̕͜͟͟Ţ̶̵̵ǫ̸͞m̶̧̕͝͞m̢̧͟y̵҉̷̢ ̢͞T͟҉̨͡͡o̵͏̵̛m̸̴̨͞m̶̶̷͢y͢҉͜ ̛͜͜͜ ͢҉̷̢ ̵̕͘͜͞ ̢̛̕͝ ̡ ̡͢   
T̢͏̴͡o̶̡̧̢m͟͡͝m̕҉̴̴҉y̴̡ ҉̵̕͠T̶̸̵̢͞o̢m̷̡͞m̸̷̡̢͜y̸̡͜ ̵͝͏T̴͢o̷̕͡m͏̶̡͜͝m̷̢̕̕͞y̕͢  
̧͏͞ ̸̕͡҉T̶͞͝o͘m̵̛͢͡m̨̢̧͝y̛ ̵̨T̕o̢m̷̢̢m̴̛̕͞y̶̧͢͞  
T̵ǫ̶͜͡m̢̡͟͝m̛͟͠y̸̵

  
Ghostbur wakes up.

He feels like the moment he died.

Ghostbur wakes up. 

Everything is loud _loud loud loud_ and it feels like nails--his?--scraping at his brain. Music is floating through the room, not his, he’s not in his room he’s sat outside because he can hear it taunting him he thinks his eyes are closed but it calls, and the music is digging into his skin. Something presses and sinks into his shoulder like an anvil like a stone like hands faces faces colors hurts hurts hurts he can’t move, something brushes his neck and it feels like an explosion twisting and caressing and destroying. 

“Wilbur?” The voice hurts. The voice sounds gentle but so, so loud. Does he know that voice? He does--he knows that voice. It’s a little, bandaged hand in his and the feel of blonde, matted hair and it’s brotherhood and tears.

...Tommy?

“Yeah, it’s me, Wilbie.” It’s strange hearing him be gentle, but he’s not quiet to Ghostbur’s ears, if he’s quiet the world might as well be done for, and Ghostbur’s so, so grateful he’s not yelling. Something wrong curls above his stomach like he ate something that turned turning turns bad.

Maybe he should let him believe. It wouldn’t hurt to let him. Would it? It won’t it won’t it wouldn’t it won’t it would. 

“I’m Ghostbur,” he says as the curling in his gut spreads, wrapping around his shoulders and forcing to curl inwards. These memories are not his to take, to claim, to own. “I’m not him.”

Tommy shifts, lifting his head from his shoulder and sending spiders and caterpillars skittering across his nerves. 

He doesn’t say anything. Ghostbur wishes he would. 

“I’m sorry,” Ghostbur says, and his throat hurts. He’s sick of his own voice. He hasn’t heard his own voice in a while; it crackles like stone or flesh or bone, reaching with its chipped and spindly legs through the room and festering where it scratches. It’s nothing like singing. It was never him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again with his crawling voice. He hopes it doesn’t bother Tommy. “Sorry.” He should apologize. “I’m sorry.”

“Wil-Gh...”

“I’m sorry.” He’s not sure why he’s saying it. He hates his voice. It’s the only thing quiet (loud loud loud loud) to his ears after a fresh death. He spoke over Tommy, didn’t he? “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. The air warms, sorry, tick tick tick tick, tap tap. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Tommy.” A voice like bark scrapes across his face and he wants to flinch but it’s soft like moss and sinks into the scratches and coaxes to bleed and bleed and bleed. 

“Please let me stay.” He’s folded into soft red sounds stained with blue, and he wants to cry at the contrast. It chafes and picks off bits of chipped and crackling skin, but it’s so very soft in comparison. “I’ll be good. Please let me stay with him.”

“Why can’t he stay?” His voice shakes with the weight of it. Please don’t take him away. He’s sorry. He’s sorry, he’s so sorry for existing. Please leave his brother alone. He’s sorry. 

“He’s done a bad thing by visiting you here,” Dream says in the most pitying way possible. Ghostbur feels the floor is ripping into his skin as he feels like he’s slipping, falling, falling. His chest hurts. It hurts like bark and an axe and peeling chipping into soft, dead wood. He’s sorry. 

“Can’t you let him stay? Just once?” He hears a whimper and a held back yelp and there’s no one at his side. He feels hollowed out, scooped and scraped clean inside like everything inside him is stone and rigid unstable and unmoving in the way of diamond a pickaxe a claw and he knows he’ll break but he wants his brother so badly, he thinks he might break anyway.

“Please? I’ll be good, I won’t complain or scream or fight I...” He hates his voice and he thinks he’s bending cracking splintering into a hundred tiny pieces. His eyes crawl and his skin starts digging and searing with a steady note of dripping. He opens his eyes to see the world blur and green and red and black and white instead of black black black black black and seeing feels like a nail being pressed into the eyes set in fissures until they want to pop and run down his face in sticky treads. 

Everything is sharp and blurred and bright like salt. He leaks blue from what is left of his eyes and of himself and he shuts his mouth. Please. He’s sorry. He doesn’t know why this is happening but he knew it was going to happen, so he must have done something and he’s so sorry. He shuts his mouth. Please give Tommy back sorry. He wants his brother, please give him back he’s sorry please please give him back sorry sorry sorry sorry PLEASE PLEASE ANYTHING PLEASE PLEASE BACK GIVE PLEASE SORRY SORRY PLEASE HE’LL DIG A WOUND THROUGH HIS CHEST AND GIVE HIS HEART PLEASE GIVE HIM BACK PLEASE PLEASE WHAT DID HE DO PLEASE SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY ALONE SORRY DARK DONT LEAVE PLEASE HE’S SORRY PLEASE STAY SORRY SORRY SORRY DARK DARK SORRY PLEASE DARK MUSIC HELP SCREAMING PLEASE SORRY SCRATCHING HELP HELP PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SORRY WRITING HELP KNOCKING SORRY HELP HELP HELP HELP STAY SORRY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Ghostbur wakes up. 

There’s music playing somewhere, and he wonders if he can find the thrum. There’s something sticky on his face that he never noticed before now, and they poke and poke and poke until they’re etched in wax and melting.

The floor is knocking. He picks it up and it melts through fingers to pour blue across the air. There’s white where his hands were now, still thrumming red and blue across the room while his fingers are crooked and wailing. He’s not sure he cares. It’s not like they’re his fingers.

He feels like he did standing in a little library on a hot, summer day. He feels like he did on the road, guitar in hand and lyrics under his tongue. He feels like any other time in his life, the world turning under his feet with or without him.

He feels like the moment he died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3's finally out crabrave. Hopefully this makes a little more sense as to what's going on! 
> 
> Big thanks to lovvy for the fic idea! Go read his works, he's an amazing writer!  
> And thank you to all the people I bullied into reading this, you all are fantastic <3


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